Unseen Immortal of Three Hundred Years - Chap 57
Chapter 57
Upon hearing the words “be guests,” the twelve children suddenly sprang to life.
Being guests sounded wonderful.
It meant they weren’t being sent away.
Considering the antics of a certain adult, these little beings were actually a bit more lively than living people. They could be described as exceptionally spirited actors.
One moment they were overshadowed by gloom, and the next, they were laughing so hard their eyes squinted.
Xiao Fuxuan wasn’t paying attention, and just like that, the twelve children disappeared without a sound.
Looking up again, they had already lined up on both sides of the entrance to the Spring Breeze Gate, six on each side, neatly arranged, hands clasped in front of them as they bowed slightly, their voices soft and milky, “Sir, please.”
Xiao Fuxuan was speechless.
Wu Xingxue silently turned his face away, feeling that perhaps he had gone a bit too far with his actions.
His own two children were utterly dumbfounded, and after a long while, they looked up and said, “Sir, this is—”
Before they could finish, Wu Xingxue’s fingers moved behind his back.
The two little ones meant to say, “This is the lively and performative nature you spoke of,” but the words that came out of their mouths turned into, “These are the children of Lord Celestial, wow.”
The children were speechless.
They touched their mouths, feeling something was terribly wrong with the gate.
Wu Xingxue glanced at the tops of their heads, thinking to himself that these two little ones, aside from anything else, were incredibly skilled at betraying their master—and in front of the same person, no less.
If only they had chosen someone else.
Fortunately, Xiao Fuxuan’s attention was entirely on the twelve lined-up children, seemingly oblivious to the small movements here.
Wu Xingxue immediately felt relieved.
The twelve children had been bowing for a long time without seeing their master move, and they all started looking up in confusion, saying, “Sir?”
But as they looked up, they saw their master’s numb face.
The children quietly returned to their positions, leaving two rows of spikey, chirping heads for the Celestial.
Wu Xingxue, completely forgetting he was the instigator, watched the commotion with glee in his eyes.
He warned Xiao Fuxuan, “If you don’t enter now, be careful they might perform again for you.”
No sooner had he spoken than he felt a breeze past the tip of his nose, and Xiao Fuxuan was already standing in the courtyard of the Spring Breeze.
Wu Xingxue, with a smile, closed the door and strode into the house.
Walking by his side, Xiao Fuxuan lagged half a step behind.
Even in this short distance, Wu Xingxue could understand what the people of Xian Du often said: even without speaking, the presence of the Celestial Immortal was extraordinarily pronounced.
Long mist curtains hung over the doorway, and the two children, now quite adept, dashed over to part them to the sides.
Lord Lingwang finally observed the courtesy of hosting, stepping aside to let the guest enter first.
However, the guest paused as he lifted the curtain, turning his head to look over at a very close distance, and asked, “Are these children behind me the handiwork of Lord Lingwang?”
His voice was low, clearly asking, yet the tone descended, betraying no sense of inquiry, more like a faint statement.
Lord Lingwang flatly denied, “No.”
Xiao Fuxuan raised an eyebrow.
Lord Lingwang added, “Why would I meddle with your children?”
Xiao Fuxuan remained motionless, watching him for a long while before finally nodding.
“Oh, I see.” His voice dropped low as he entered the house.
For reasons unknown, Wu Xingxue always felt these three characters bore a profound significance. Yet, looking at Tianxiu’s face, it remained as cold and indifferent as ever, not seeming like he was up to anything.
He must be overthinking it.
But it wasn’t long before he silently retracted that statement.
He wasn’t overthinking; he was underthinking.
Tianxiu wasn’t here for a visit; he was here to play him.
He had a young boy bring over a jug of wine, filling Xiao Fuxuan’s cup to the brim. The other man, straightforward as could be, lifted the cup and drank it all in one gulp. Then, in a calm voice, he said to the boy standing idly by, “Good wine, give thanks.”
Wu Xingxue, still holding his cup, hadn’t yet grasped what “give thanks” meant when he saw the twelve young boys obediently and eagerly line up, bustling to stand before him.
The boy at the very front came up with a deep bow, hands clasped together as if offering three sticks of incense, the very image of “paying respect to ancestors” you’d find in a village temple.
Wu Xingxue was speechless.
The boy bowed deeply and said, “Thank you, Spirit King, for your hospitality.”
After giving thanks, he ran off.
The boy behind him stepped forward, performing another formal bow, bowing deeply, “Thank you, Spirit King, for your hospitality.”
After paying his respects, he too ran off, followed by the third.
Then came the fourth, the fifth…
In total, twelve thanks were given.
The Spirit King hadn’t even had half a sip of his wine, yet just watching this unfold was enough to intoxicate him.
But this was just the beginning.
Indeed, Xiao Fuxuan, the Celestial Master, was a man of few words, not prone to talking much, a serene and elegant guest. However, thanks to these twelve boys, there wasn’t a moment of quietness like a spring breeze.
Fearing the Celestial Master might not need them, the twelve boys were exceptionally eager that night, initially following each command to the letter. Eventually, they skipped the commands altogether, starting to anticipate his needs.
Toasting with the Spirit King, a touch and twelve rounds ensued.
Pouring wine for the Spirit King, twelve wine pots respectfully waited by the side, promptly refilled as soon as one was emptied.
The newly brewed jade liquor from the wine pool was somewhat thick, warming the drinker, with twelve round fans erected instantly by the side.
Wu Xingxue’s own two young servants had no opportunity to intervene. At first, they struggled, attempting to block.
However, it’s hard to fight with two hands against four, let alone twenty-four. The two youngsters eventually gave up, standing aside with their sleeves wrapped around, passing wine pots and fans, very obediently.
Turning his head, Wu Xingxue saw them passing the round fans and couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
With that laugh, all pretense of hosting decorum was abandoned.
He placed the white jade cup on the table, saying, “Xiao Mian”
Back then, when people from the immortal city spoke of him, they would respectfully call him “celestial master,” an honorific title. Face to face, they’d even add “Sir.” No one would call him by his real surname “Xiao.”
Especially not with that tone.
Normally, this would be considered “rude.” The Spirit King, born of divine wood and nurtured by heaven, was accustomed to acting on whim and not particular about formalities. But celestial master was different.
In everyone’s eyes, celestial master was cold, handsome, and sharp, never close to anyone, presumably disliking rudeness.
Yet, hearing “Xiao Mian,” he still tilted his head back and drained his cup. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed the liquor, then turned his gaze to Wu Xingxue, responding with a low “Hmm.”
Jade liquor easily intoxicates, and he had drunk quite a bit, but his eyes remained clear, like the cold, clean stars of a winter night.
“The Spirit King is annoyed,” he said.
Hearing that the Spirit King himself was annoyed, the young servants’ faces changed instantly, all looking up at Wu Xingxue. They stopped fanning, frozen in place. Soon, tears welled up in their eyes, like black grapes.
Wu Xingxue “”
When the twelve young servants surrounded him, tugging at his robe and starting to cry, he closed his eyes in utter discomfort.
Then he grabbed hold of Xiao Fuxhuan.
The Celestial master had just returned from his earthly duties, his figure cloaked in profound, dark indigo, his cuffs adorned with smoky gold. The slender fingers of the Spirit King rested upon it, appearing even whiter and thinner. It was nearly impossible to tell that these hands, when gripping a sword, were exceptionally steady, their strikes swift and decisive.
Xiao Fuxuan’s gaze lingered on those fingers for a moment before he lifted his eyes.
Wu Xingxue smiled with an elegant grace, then abruptly, his expression turned wooden as he said, “You might as well not be a guest. Take these children and return to your southern window.”
At that moment, the Spirit King’ swiftly changing expression juxtaposed with the wailing children presented a curious sight.
Xiao Fuxuan glanced over them, then averted his face.
His gaze flickered, and much later, Wu Xingxue would recall that moment, still feeling it was a rare glimpse of a smile.
So much so that he paused for a second, then suddenly asked, “How were you able to recognize me that day?”
Xiao Fuxuan was about to stand and grab his sword. His hand hesitated, then he turned to look at Wu Xingxue, “Which day?”
Wu Xingxue replied, “What other day?”
Realization dawned on Xiao Fuxuan, “On the jade stairs.”
Wu Xingxue nodded, “Right.”
Xiao Fuxuan spoke in a deep voice, “There are several Kings of Fighters in the celestial realms, why couldn’t you recognize?”
At first glance, there seemed nothing amiss with this statement, but
Even if there was only one Spirit King in the celestial realms, they had never met face to face. Even though he had heard of the “Spirit King” many times from other immortals, described vividly, it was not the same as seeing with his own eyes.
To truly recognize him, one had to rely on those distinct traits.
He recalled the children’s words from that day, “I wasn’t wearing my usual mask, nor was I carrying my sword, and there was no bestowed inscription on my neck. From where”
“Did you recognize me?” Before he could finish, a sudden clang resounded within the room.
Wu Xingxue’s speech halted, and he looked towards the sound, only to see his sword, which had been leaning against the couch, inexplicably move and fall to the ground.
He reached out and grabbed at the air, and the spirit sword drew a sharp, beautiful arc before landing in his hand.
Sword immortals possess a spirit, sensing both people and objects, so it wasn’t unusual for there to be some movement. Moreover, this sword contained essence of white jade, which was once transformed from the blood of Xiao Fuxuan.
And Xiao Fuxuan was standing just a step away, questioning, “What’s with the sword?”
Wu Xingxue let out a soft “Oh,” glanced down at the blade, and turned it in his hand, saying, “Nothing, it’s just rather spirited.”
Those who wield swords are always highly sensitive to them, able to discern their quality at a glance. Especially when it’s the sword of the Spirit King.
Xiao Fuxuan said, “Your sword isn’t forged from mystic iron.”
“Your eyes are sharp indeed, it’s not crafted from mystic iron,” Wu Xingxue replied softly. “It’s transformed from essence of white jade.”
“Essence of white jade?”
“Yes, there’s a place in the human world called Luo Hua Tai, not sure if you’ve heard of it,” Wu Xingxue said, “That place has essence of white jade.”
When he mentioned Luo Hua Tai, he looked up at Xiao Fuxuan.
Xiao Fuxuan’s expression remained unchanged, as usual, as if hearing about a completely unfamiliar place.
Indeed,
He doesn’t remember.
Wu Xingxue thought.
He withdrew his gaze, feeling no longer the need to ask the question he had impulsively wanted to.
Strangely, if it had been before, he might have felt somewhat lost. But at this moment, perhaps because Xiao Fuxuan was standing right in front of him, saying “as a guest” and walking into his sitting in the spring breeze, that sense of loss suddenly disappeared, almost to nothing.
He held a sword behind his back, giving his two young attendants a glance as he was about to see off the guest. Suddenly, he heard Tianxu speak, “I have seen you in the mortal realm.”
Wu Xingxue’s hand, which was behind his back, tightened suddenly, and he looked up abruptly.
A moment later, he realized that Xiao Fuxuan had taken his question, which had been left unanswered, to heart and was now responding.
“Where did you recognize me from?”
“I have seen you in the mortal realm.”
“Which part of the mortal realm?” Wu Xingxue asked.
Xiao Fuxuan’s long eyes narrowed slightly, as if lost in thought, and after a moment, he said, “A long time ago, at the divine tree at Luohuati in Jingguan.”
Wu Xingxue’s fingers slowly relaxed.
This answer was both expected and unexpected.
It was expected because it wasn’t “on the divine tree at Luohuatai.”
And unexpected because it was “Jingguan.”
Jingguan was a name that came into existence later, later than Luohuatai and slightly earlier than the present-day Xian Du by a few decades.
It was not a city, a mountain, or an island. Jingguan was once an unremarkable wilderness on the outskirts of the dream city.
The reason this unremarkable wilderness became special and got a name was due to the intermittent wars that occurred over hundreds of years.
Countless people died in those wars, generation after generation, spanning several lifetimes of ordinary people.
The corpses of those who died in the wars piled up like mountains, with limbs mixed together and blood mingling with mud, indistinguishable after the smoke of gunpowder cleared. Moreover, in that era, most families were destroyed, leaving no one to claim the bodies.
Thus, the unclaimed bodies were transported to that rarely traversed wilderness. Sand, mud, and stones were layered upon each other to build one giant tomb after another.
Each tomb contained the remains of hundreds or thousands of people.
Over time, this wilderness became a place specifically for the accumulation of unnamed corpses from the world and was given a name: Jingguan.
It was probably the place with the highest concentration of deceased souls in the world, a vortex of utmost ferocity and evil if slightly utilized.
As everything in the world has its counterpart, where there is a place that gathers tombs, there are also tomb keepers.
Those who could guard such a place were somewhat capable. It is said that the one who chose to set his hermitage there was a nomadic cultivator without a sect or family.
Because all the relatives in this world connected to him had passed away, buried in the tombs of Jingguan, he stayed there, becoming the guardian of Jingguan’s tombs.
A solitary practitioner erected a tall tower at the boundary of Jingguan and took up residence within it.
Atop the tower hung an ancient bell.
Every night, the solitary practitioner would walk a circle around Jingguan. If all was well, he would leap to the top of the tower and ring the bell.
People who once lived near Jingguan had all heard that sound.
The ringing of the bell signified that all was peaceful throughout the night.
Later, the solitary practitioner took in some homeless children. Those who could live with him in the high tower of Jingguan must also possess something special.
They were born with extremely ominous and deadly fates, just enough to counterbalance the malevolent energies of Jingguan, preventing them from dying young.
However, residing in such a place for a long time is invariably harmful to the living. Thus, the solitary practitioner taught the children some survival skills.
He was both a father and a teacher to them.
This could have become a legend, or a heartwarming tale, passed down through the ages.
Unfortunately, it did not.
Having stayed too long in such an extremely ominous and deadly place, the solitary practitioner was influenced without realizing it. Once, while practicing, he was slightly careless and, under the impact of the malevolent energy, he deviated into madness.
After that, the solitary practitioner changed, slowly harboring many terrifying thoughts. He craved for flesh and blood, longed for prosperity, and loathed his own aging body.
But he did not show it on the outside.
Furthermore, since he had once indeed protected the peace, those who knew him never suspected that he would do things beyond common sense.
The children he had taken in and raised in the unknown high tower slowly became his sacrificial offerings.
Blood, flesh, skin, and bones.
Once on the path of evil, these things became his desires.
To avoid detection, he was extremely careful and discreet with every child he killed,
Starting with those closest to him, for they were the easiest to handle due to their lack of guard.
Starting with those who were the most powerless to resist, for they required the least effort.
He indulged slowly and repaired very meticulously.
Thus, there were fewer and fewer living people in the tower, and more and more walking corpses, yet it was not discovered for a long time.
But as the solitary practitioner fell deeper, his cravings grew more intense, and such slow and meticulous methods no longer suited him.
Merely a few living people could not stop his transformation. He was still aging, decaying, waking up each day to the scent of withering and dullness within his body.
He spared the most troublesome two or three disciples as a way out and then began searching for new methods. He controlled the walking corpses and the still-living disciples.
If there was something inconvenient for him to do personally, he would make them do it. If it was convenient for the dead, he would use the walking corpses. If it was convenient for the living, he would use those two or three disciples.
For years on end.
A certain unaffiliated cultivator utilized some sinister techniques, using the countless dead of Jingguan to pave a “path”, thereby obtaining a fragment of the divine tree when it was sealed.
Ordinarily, if a fragment of the divine tree were to fall into the mortal markets, it would be hard to conceal. Jingguan, however, was an exception.
This place was a gathering of countless massive tombs, burying innumerable dead, swirling with endless deathly and malevolent auras. Such an extremely ominous and evil place perfectly concealed the aura of the divine tree fragment.
Thus, the unaffiliated cultivator embarked on a path many could not resist the temptation of.
With the divine tree fragment, he repeatedly went back and forth.
He returned to the moment before he killed his first child, driving away all those he had sheltered. Then, after suppressing his demonic thoughts for years, when his outburst finally came, he went mad beyond his own control and slaughtered the people of the nearby towns, creating a situation that was beyond redemption.
He also returned to before he became possessed, wanting to seal himself away, yet unwilling to part with his later cultivation, as well as the satisfaction and thrill of doing as he pleased.
He even went back further, purposely avoiding Jingguan, seeking another cave dwelling. Yet, upon witnessing the ghosts of Jingguan causing havoc, he couldn’t help but intervene, slowly returning to his old ways.
Humans are always complex to the extreme.
The unaffiliated cultivator went back and forth so many times, he himself could no longer distinguish whether he was good or evil, why he had done so many good deeds once, yet later could commit so many evil acts.
Why later on, he could kill people and eat their flesh without blinking an eye, yet upon returning to the past and seeing the ghosts causing havoc, he still couldn’t help but intervene to save others.
After many repetitions, he became numb.
He lived those decades over and over, if one way didn’t work, he tried another; if that didn’t work, he tried something else. So much so that sometimes he would suddenly doubt if he was the only ghost without a home, trapped in the predicament formed over those decades.
Later on, he even forgot what exactly he wanted to achieve by going back, only remembering the obsession with wanting to return.
It was the most troublesome celestial decree the Spirit King had ever received.
Because that unaffiliated cultivator had gone back too many times, just by himself, he had spawned dozens of different timelines.
Wu Xingxue remembered it all too clearly.
Every beginning was him flying down to Jingguan, standing under that dark tower, looking up at the hanging bell.
He always raised his hand to fit the silver wire mask over his face, concealing his appearance, then moved his sword hilt closer, stepping into the cold, ash-grey mist.
Passing through the cold mist, he would land on one of the timelines.
He watched the unaffiliated cultivator walking the predetermined path, until he caught the moment of causal change, then he would draw his sword and make a clean cut.
After cutting off one timeline, he always had to investigate again, clearing away some stray branches and leaves, ensuring everything was correct before moving on to another.
And ensuring everything was correct meant he had to witness those key events happening.
So, he moved among those chaotic lines, killing, clearing, investigating.
He had to watch over and over again as the unaffiliated cultivator carried the spirit-driving lamp quietly patrolling the massive tombs of Jingguan, then going to the top of the tower to ring that ancient bell.
Watching him first help and save people, then harm and kill people; watching him turn from good to evil.
He also had to repeatedly confirm those sheltered children, one by one falling prey, one after another dying, turning into corpses controlled by others.
Sometimes, he would stand by a corpse for a long time, but it was unclear what he was thinking.
His hand holding the sword was always steady, and even when standing in the mist, his figure remained upright. He wore a mask, so no one knew what expression lay beneath it.
He always stood there, and after a long while, he would flick off the specks of mud or droplets of blood from his sword, then turn and vanish into the thick fog.
Eventually, he witnessed the lifetimes of countless solitary cultivators, saw too many instances of children dying, saw mountains of corpses time and again. Each was a consequence of his own actions.
So much so that, for a moment, he felt a subtle sense of disgust.
He was unclear where this sudden disgust sprang from, whether it was directed at those who acted without considering the consequences, or if it also included himself, standing aside with his sword as if merely an observer.
After clearing away all the chaos, he returned to the normal flow of time, to the world of the living.
Coincidentally, it was March, so he made a trip to the Falling Flower Platform.
The market at Falling Flower City had just opened, the lights stretched for twelve miles, casting the entire mountain in rouge red.
He had no particular destination in mind, simply wandering through the bustling crowd, observing the lively stalls pushing their carts, and the mist that seemed to turn into a haze.
Leaning against the doorpost of an inn, he listened to a storyteller’s tales as swift as a galloping horse, watched several operas amidst the clamor of gongs and drums, and amused some children with his likable appearance and sweet cakes.
That was the longest he had ever stayed in the mortal realm.
But because he moved through the chaotic threads without spending actual time, to everyone else, the Spirit King’s departure from the Celestial City was merely a matter of two days, and he had spent almost all of it at the Falling Flower Platform.
No one knew what he had seen or done during that time, nor did anyone understand why he was so fond of that bustling market.
Xiao Fuxuan was the first, and the only one, who claimed to have seen him in the Capital.
